Addicted
by house-of-insanity
Summary: Oneshot songfic from Cameron's POV. What's a girl to do when she realizes he just doesn't like her? This one doesn't have a happy ending. Read at your own risk. Song: Addicted, by Kelly Clarkson


Disclaimer: _House, MD_? Mine? Don't make me laugh.

Summary: One-shot song-fic about Cameron. What's a girl to think when she finally understands that he just doesn't like her? This story doesn't have a happy ending – read at your own risk. Song: Addicted, by Kelly Clarkson.

A/N: I'm not giving up on my other story, Too Little, Too Late; I am merely afflicted with the dreaded writer's block. This is just to pass the time away while I figure out how to say what I want to in the most artful manner. Until then, enjoy! As always, I crave reviews, especially from anyone who thinks they can give me any suggestions to apply to my future stories. Hearing that I'm doing a good job is nice, but constructive criticism presents a challenge I continually love to take. Definitely tell me what I can work on; I'd really appreciate it. Thanks for reading!

* * *

_It's like you're a drug.  
__It's like you're a demon I can't face down.  
__It's like I'm stuck.  
__It's like I'm running from you all the time._

They say the first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Well, I do. I have a very big problem. His name is Gregory House.

I don't understand how it happened, but for whatever reason, I've been of the absurd impression that I am meant to be with him.

Also, I've been of the equally absurd impression that he felt the same way.

_And I know I let you have all the power.  
__It's like the only company I seek is misery all around._

I never thought of myself as a fool until now. _He _certainly didn't do anything to mislead me, so what could have gotten it into my head that he loved me? He didn't, you know. He _doesn't._

_It's like you're a leach,  
__Sucking the life from me.  
__It's like I can't breathe  
__Without you inside of me._

I used to spent my Friday nights cowering in front of the telephone, punching in the digits to the number I've had memorized since I met him, considering what I was doing, and then hanging up before it rang. My Saturday nights were much more realistic for a girl in my situation but not at all less agonizing; I kept company with a carton of ice cream, a romance novel, and my trusty television set. By the time Sunday rolled around, I was either gearing myself up for another week at work, preparing to be let down again, or else I was vowing that things would be different _next_ weekend. It really depended on the weather.

The only thing more sickening than how much time I wasted fawning over the fantasies I had of us together was that it was all my fault. It would be easier, I think, if I could blame this infatuation on him, but he gave me no reason to believe that somehow he really cared about me. No, I screwed _myself_ over. No one else did.

_And I know I let you have all the power.  
__And I realize I'm never gonna quit you over time._

He wears his sorry excuse for a heart on his sleeve. It's been there all this time for me to look at, study, and memorize. I was looking in the wrong places. If I had wanted to know how he felt about me, I should have listened to him when he told me he didn't like me. He measures a woman by how she holds up against him; I should have known that I just don't. Time and time again, I fail to impress him. Time and time again, I duct-tape my ego back together and promise I'll be more careful with it next time.

_It's like I'm lost.  
__It's like I'm giving up slowly.  
__It's like you're a ghost that's haunting me.  
__Leave me alone._

I don't know what it was about today that gave me this unwanted epiphany. It's not unusual for me to secretly lust after him as I go about my job; nor is it unusual for him to let it roll off his back with a minimal amount of snide remarks and muttering to Wilson about the fact that I irritate the hell out of him.

I suppose it was just that a girl can only take so many of his artless attempts to subtly inform her that he's not enamored with her before she has to admit that it's true. There I was, minding my own business, answering his mail with a fervor I reserve solely for sucking up to people, when he came in.

"Good morning, Dr. House," I quipped, my voice jumping upward a few octaves.

"Mmmm," he said by way of greeting. He eyed the letter I was busy typing up. "Be sure not to sign this one 'Alison House' like you did the last time, okay?"

My face turned the color of his fire-engine red coffee mug. "I…did that?" I stammered.

That adorable bastard actually _grinned _at me as he walked away. "Gotcha," he said. "Hiring you was the best choice I ever made. Your humiliation is easily ten times as entertaining as _General Hospital_, and you're not even bad to look at."

All I could do was stare at his back as he retreated and wonder how I always manage to make myself look like a fool in front of him.

It hit me then that it's because he means everything he says, and I never, ever believe him.

_And I know these voices in my head are mine alone.  
__And I know I'll never change my ways if I don't give you up now._

As a result, this is where I find myself: alone. Again.

It's Friday night, and I'm skipping ahead to Saturday's activities because I figure it's a waste of time to fidget with the keys on the phone for hours on end. Better get a start on my moping now. It's going to take a lot of ice cream to fill the hole in my heart.

I'm trying to avoid turning my head in the direction of the cordless phone on my coffee table, but occasionally my eyes will dart from the words on the page of my book to it anyway. I desperately want to touch it. Maybe now, since everything's out in the open as it is, I can work up the courage to press that last digit and stay on the line long enough to hear it ring…

_I'm hooked on you,  
__I need a fix,  
__I can't take it.  
__Just one more hit,  
__I promise,  
__I can deal with it._

Almost hypnotized, I set down my book and reach for the phone. I punch in the numbers and literally gasp for air as I hear it ring. I've already admitted my weakness to myself by getting this far; maybe admitting it to him will be the ticket I need out of this misery. He should know, I've convinced myself, that I've found enlightenment: he doesn't love me, and I don't care.

_I'll handle it,  
__Quit it,  
__Just one more time,  
__Then that's it.  
__Just a little bit more  
__To get me through this._

He picks up the phone. "Hello?" he says. Even though he's miles away, I can practically smell the alcohol on his breath. It intoxicates me almost as much as it must have him. I can picture him now, hunched over his piano, alternating sheets of music with shots of whiskey or whatever it is that he's been drinking. No matter how pathetic this would seem were it any other man, the fact that it's him makes me weak with desire.

I realize somewhere in the fog of my imagination that maybe I should say something before he mistakes me for a wrong number and hangs up. "Hi," I blurt out, stumbling over the word. "Ummm, it's Alison."

"Did a patient bite the dust, or is this a social call?"

"I…I wanted to…" _Why did I call? What was the point?_ I ask myself, burying my face in a pillow.

"Social call," he decides. "Definitely a social call. What do you need, Cameron?"

"You," I mumble into the pillow.

_It's like I can't breathe.  
__It's like I can't see anything.  
__Nothing but you.  
__I'm addicted to you._

"One more time, for those of us who aren't as young as they used to be."

"I need you," I say, preparing to meet my doom. I know what I am saying is such a cliché, but that doesn't make it any less true. "Can I come over? I really need to see you." I need to see you, hear you, smell you, taste you, feel you…

I can picture him in my mind's eye; he's blinking, cocking his head to the side in confusion, wondering what is running through my poor, naïve mind. No doubt, he's going to tell me to stay far away from him. "Bring a pizza when you do," he tells me finally, and I'm not sure whether what I'm feeling is relief or dread. "I don't sit well with anchovies, but whatever else you top it with is fine."

"Thank-you," I say softly. I know he hears me, even though only thing coming from his end is breathing before he disconnects. I grab my purse and pull on some shoes, ready to do the unthinkable.

It's inevitable, what's going to happen once I get there. We'll eat in silence, he'll make a few meaningless jokes about the situation, I'll laugh nervously and nod. Eventually he's either going to have to kick me out or invite me to stay. Somehow, I know the former is going to happen, but the latter is the only one I can really fathom. I won't get what I came for, whatever it may be – _I_ don't even rightly know. Answers? Check. Acceptance? Check. Validation? Check.

I feel like a tramp for doing this. I don't care if he proves, in the end, to be a respectable, decent man that's not going to take advantage of me just because I'm willing to let him. In my mind, I've already given myself to him, and I don't think that living it out will fill the hollow spaces in my heart. Even if I get what I've been telling myself I want, I will always feel empty. Always.

_It's like I can't think  
__Without you interrupting me.  
__In my thoughts, in my dreams.  
__You've taken over me.  
__It's like I'm not me.  
__It's like I'm not me._

My name is Alison Cameron. I'm an addict. And I have a feeling things aren't going to change.

The End


End file.
